Where this put me was on the coast of Washington. This poem is delicious, and I want to read it over and over to savor each little breath, I’m printing it so I can do that by the fire. Thank you so much. Welcome home, it’s so good to see you back in your lil’ corral.

I love the cyclical nature of this poem, and all the references to nature. When I read it, I become it. “Blue gilled thunder clouds
is so inspired. The whole poem is, it’s a chanting creative song. Wonderful, Julie.

I love the last lines of this poem, because to me, they offer hope (maybe not your intention in the writing, but as a reader, I’d like to think “hope” — that the faces “floating downstream” will, perhaps, find a better home, a good home, a home with a future that respects the past as well as upholds the traditions, but that offers something more … a chance …).

And a chance is sometimes all we need, yes?

To the good words!
Geoff (& Eleanor),
who are still plugging away at “This Side of Paradise”
…
(though now we are locking ourselves in The Little Room for a couple of weeks to work on the words — self-imposed exile of the good sort)

*
… alas, my sentence structure is quite strange here, but, I’ve been writing most of the day, and the words and punctuation and the rest are all crying for attention, as in “place me here,” or, “you should put a period here,” and so forth …. Words (and punctuation) can be so demanding!

Hi, Geoff & Eleanor! It’s so nice to see you. That’s a very keen observation. I didn’t consciously intend for the ending to be optimistic, but it very well could have been subconscious on my part. People are always telling me I’m a strange mix of doom, paranoia, and “innocent, wide eyed optimism.” I just thought the mix was because I’m an American…ha!

But your observation is very interesting, and I think it rings true on that other level. I’m enjoying the realization very much.

I also love what you say about writing. So true! No need to worry about sentence structure or commas around here. I understand that all night long rush of words:)

I will be back to visit you, too! Thanks much for dropping in and giving me a lot to think about. Your kind comments are greatly appreciated.

Hi, Scot! Oh yeah…it was a great trip! I wish I had more weeks like last week. You’re right about writing. Time to get it organized. As if I’ll ever be organized…ha! Thanks for the kind comments. It’s great to see you. I’ll be back at your house tonight:)

The second stanza has reeled me in; how it speaks of everything being connected somehow. Hack a young tree down, one after another on a patch of land, and somewhere, sometime later, landslides bury part of or even whole villages or subdivisions (this has, so sadly, happened several times in different parts of my country).

So many beautiful scenes here, Julie, like the one in the fourth stanza. The last line thereof is a clincher. :)

Hi, S.L. You are so right about the landslides or flooding. I know an area where, of course, building on wetlands wasn’t allowed by environmental law. So the developer filled in the wetlands with huge amounts of dirt. Voila…their problem was solved. There were no more wetlands, so they could build subdivisions to their heart’s content. A year later, all of the houses in the subdivisions flooded after a couple of heavy rains.

This is so heavy with nature, like a full belly, and so sad we can’t keep things that way. Water has always been a healing element for me. I’m not sure how I feel about it here. It’s like there is someone at the end of this poem with their mouth open, swallowing all the images-water, clay, cypress knees in the poem…I mean that in a good way. hm….
Also, the upside down-rightside up of the cypress is very interesting. It does seem the the whole tree is a root!

Yes, the second stanza just grips you with the “My soul is three-fourths salt” really brings together the earths intricate part in life, in body and in soul. You really make me feel the earth its life giving essence — the marsh the swamp not unlike our own existence, our thoughts, our twisted bones.

Thank you, Barbara. That is a very nice compliment, and I will try not to underestimate myself anymore:) I like how you describe the marsh and swamp “not unlike our own existence, our thoughts, our twisted bones.” Even your comments are poetic! Thanks again for stopping by. It’s much appreciated.

If we could only take our cues from the Once-lor, who speaks for the trees & nature – we would be so much better off environmentally. ;)

The last stanza – with last two lines – are sublime!
As always, your amazing work stirs me!

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Hi, K! You’re the poet with the coolest blog name I think I’ve ever seen. And, of course, the work matches the name. I can’t remember if I found you or you found me, but now I’m so glad to know you. Thanks much for the kind comments. -Julie

For me, water always holds within it the promise of birth, or rebirth as the case may be. The loss of the water is primary and takes with it – so much that you have set out for us here. But it never really goes away does it? It’s always there, if not flowing on the earth, then as that promise, in the air, in the thunder clouds. What flows away also, somehow, must flow back. I have to reach for the hopefulness, but it is there. I’m not sure you’re truly capable of being without it, Julie, no matter what people say.

I love the “blue gilled thunder clouds” – that’s just gorgeous – it startled me with its beauty and “rightness”. I know you wrote this “before”, but I couldn’t help but think of you now uprooting yourself when I read about the “cypress” – “will they grow new knees?” I love how you left that as a question. There’s anxiety in it, but also the possibility of something else, something new.

Hey, Sistah hysperia! You know I love you, too! As usual, you get straight to my soul. I don’t think I’m capable of being without hopefulness, either. Or water! I think it’s so cool that you can see something in this poem that I didn’t realize was in the poem before. Hope. That’s awesome:) Before Geoff & Eleanor brought it up, I thought it was a very dark piece. It is, but as you so beautifully put it, there’s the possibility of something new. Yes, it really fits what I’m going through now, though I wrote it a long time ago. Thanks so much for your kind comments and for your visits. Somebody asked me this week (in reference to you) why my sister moved so far away. I got the biggest kick out of that. Love, Sis

Thank you, Scott! You’re an excellent reader. I’m really happy you saw that. I worked at trying to bring the images back in somewhat different ways, the way a wave comes to shore and is a wave, but it’s always at least slightly different. It makes me happy when someone notices the mechanics of the poem:) Thanks so much for your visit.

There is a secret life in many places, things. If you choose to accept this assignment you will be required to delve so deeply into yourself that you can become other than yourself, and then write from these alien places and things. Truly mission impossible, and rarely any pay too. Julie, you do it very well. It is a better hobby than some, I think. I very much like how you have become the wet salt smell of the cypress swamp. I didn’t much care for the moment of filling the place in with dirt but then I am sure I wasn’t supposed to be positive about that.

Thank you for the poem and thoughtful comments, Christopher. The poem is beautiful. I love the idea of “salt diminished dreams.” I also love “Something that would tear/ me limb from soft soggy limb…” Those lines rock, my friend.

You’re right about how there is rarely any pay. But I guess the payoff is emotional. Thank you again for your kind words and for your visit:) And for making me think!

I had been captured by this one …so I returned, but I would not know where to start.
The second stanza maybe – it combines the effect of words, images and concepts in a splendid manner –I almost touched my lips and felt a tang of salt and clay…
And the recurring theme carried by the clouds –the light clouds, beautiful above us caring the ‘curse’ of heavy rain that contributes to erosion. As do the neat, ‘beautiful’ human-built places with ‘a gorgeous view of the water’…

I read your poem again, and had a different experience, this time it was more about the opposing forces, between earth and ether. I could feel, taste and smell the clay. A powerful poem, Julie. The voice is of an earth goddess.

Hi, George! I was just looking at your site. I love the nature theme and pictures!! I will go back and visit you tomorrow when I’m not on the run. This week is a killer. Of course, I’m just feeling sorry for myself…ha!

Thank you so much for your good words, George. I appreciate your visit, and it’s great to meet another fellow nature lover.